Bleeding Fingers
by yellowgreenred
Summary: In an alternative reality/AU, Lithuania is made to do a different kind of cleaning. Rated T for blood and off-'screen' death. Dark elements. Also my first ever fic, so bear with me. Russia, Lithuania and Latvia.


It might have been suspicious to others at the mere sight of it. That old wooden house half-buried in snow, half stained with the marks of times gone by. The egg-yellow paint of the outside remained in places, the white borders of the doors and windows now a distressing grey. If you looked closely, you could make out the outlines and smudges of sunflowers, painted onto the house centuries ago perhaps in a forgotten effort to make the place less solemn. If the house was a person, it would be an old man who knew, but never spoke of it.

My fingers were numb again, and I gripped the wooden scrubbing brush harder in an attempt to bring some feeling back to them. It didn't work; it just made the red, soapy water flow out of the brush. At least I was lucky they hadn't turned black and fallen off yet. Being here in the snow plains of Russia, I had seen that happen more than once to unfortunate people. Perhaps I was merely used to it.

Ever since I had arrived at this place (an arrival that it seems I don't fully remember) it was my job to clean the front few steps of this ghastly house. I liked to pretend it wasn't blood that I was scrubbing up; I liked to pretend that I hadn't known the victim. If I kept scrubbing at it, it would go away. It would fade into the wood, as this house faded slowly into the snow storms. A forgotten house in a forgotten land. And inside, a forgotten man.

Ivan wasn't a person I got on with. He was cruel, cold, expecting of me and sometimes utterly childish and naive. It might be easier to say he was perhaps different people grinded together into some sick pulp and then shoved into a body. I couldn't remember how it came to be that I worked for him, if one would call it working. I cleaned up after him, with no payment, not even very much food. I had taken to collecting roots from underneath the snow and pocketing them - sometimes they would become edible when they warmed up. I didn't need water with all the snow around.

Sometimes, Ivan would just stand in the window, staring out at me and my rhythmic scrubbing. The red soapy liquid would gather up, I would wash the steps down with water, and then start scrubbing the same spot all over again. It would take hours, and he even asked me to do it when there were no fresh stains. Perhaps he somehow found it a comfort that someone was on his doorstep at all times, even if it was forced. Sometimes, he would let me in for a drink or an unexpected meal. Sometimes there were other guests. The Russian seemed to like the game of poisoning one of the drinks or meals, and mixing them up. You had to eat it. If you didn't, those cold fingers would wrap around that cold, bloodstained pipe of his and you'd instantly wish you had. I had been lucky so far, but I'd seen friends, strangers and even relatives go. I wasn't allowed to show emotion. I wondered if Ivan knew how much he was torturing me, or if this was somehow 'normal' in his twisted mind.

Ivan wasn't always condemned to the house though. No, sometimes he'd set out into the snow storm with nothing but a smile at me, and return hours, sometimes days later with a bloodstained coat, sometimes even a body or two. I don't know what he did with the bodies, something terrible I expect. I know that sometimes he kept his victims alive and that they had only appeared dead at first glance. I heard the screams, the torture in the middle of the night. It was not my place to ask, it was never my place. To him, I was nothing and yet something. The only comfort I could take was the knowledge that without me, perhaps he'd be a little unhappier. Just a tiny bit. For now, all I could do was clean up after him. It felt selfish; I was keeping myself alive by following his orders. I often wondered though, when it is time to clean up my blood, who would do that?

It was a cold, bitter night like any other in this hellish landscape when I heard Ivan returning, but alongside his usual humming, a distressed, familiar voice. It was my younger brother, Raivis. I thought he has moved far away, I had told him it wasn't safe here. I froze, and stared up at them, as Ivan took the struggling, shaking, terrified boy into the house and my heart tightened as I knew he wouldn't come out again. Raivis had met my stare, terrified and pleading. I knew that had this been years back, I would have ran in after them and tried my best to tackle the Russian, to allow Raivis to escape... even if he didn't manage to run very far, perhaps he could at least hide somewhere... But now, I was different. My legs didn't even attempt to move. I knelt back down next to the bucket of water which was slowly freezing down and started to scrub again, there was a stubborn stain here that wouldn't leave. A scream. I scrubbed at the stain some more. Another scream, more terrified this time. My name. And then some choking sounds. I scrubbed harder. My fingers were beginning to bleed now, and the blood from them was mixing with the red soap. It was interesting to see. Silence.

Ivan had thrown me out onto the front steps of the house earlier than usual today. It was extremely cold and he hadn't even given me a chance to get a coat. I soon realized why. The air was pungent with the smell of fresh blood, and the steps, all the way down to the snow, which was now dyed a painful red, were covered with it. I knew it was Raivis's blood, and a quick and panicked look at Ivan's face rewarded me with a cold, grinning expression. Silently, I got my bucket and brush and kneeled in the remains of my brother's life, and got to scrubbing.


End file.
